“And yet,” she said, a wicked smile upon her lips, “I informed her that while she might possess reservations about dressing a ‘poor doctor’s wife,’ that I trusted Mr. Worth would have no such compunction.”
The crowd broke out into a ribald mixture of laughter and applause, people shouting out their own jibes over the din.
It was a bawdy thing to do, but Cressida struck a pose to better model her elegant gown created by the aforementioned Mr. Worth, mesmerizing with its shimmering silk, a school of intricately stitched fish swimming about its hems. Now without a coat of arms, Cressida had adopted the goldfish as a sort of personal motif.
It suited her.
As did the relaxed nature of her new position. In truth, her guest lists featured fewer titles and less-revered names, but they werefarmore enjoyable. While some small part of her harbored a disbelief that she’d never again attend court, nor be invited to shooting parties at the storied estates of dukes and earls, Cressida found she hadn’t the time to be bothered.
There were some holdovers from her prior life, of course. The pair of bachelors from her gardening club, Mr. Bunch and Baron Parfitt, the young and exuberant Sir Colin Gearing and his fellow naval officers, and, oddly enough, her brother, Sir Frederick Catton, were frequent guests at her engagements. Word had spread, it seemed, of her still-outstanding abilities as a hostess, and there were plenty of people craving amusement outside the rigid, constricting rules of the aristocracy. Without that rarefied air suffocating everyone, the atmosphere was far jollier, and parties were now so rollicking that—on occasion—certain dukes and earls even deigned to show up out of curiosity. Their duchesses and countesses, however, knew better, and did not.
Cressida did not begrudge her former friends and acquaintances this. She knew all too well how much more heavily societal sins weighed upon the shoulders of women.
“Speaking of the ‘poor doctor,’” Harmonia said as she sidled up to Cressida, linking their arms, “I believe it about time that he took some air.”
The throng of revelers parted, allowing Harmonia to lead Cressida toward the cards room.
“Oh?” Cressida raised an eyebrow. “Is he about to beggar us?”
Harmonia laughed prettily.
It was not that long ago that Cressida had puzzled over how the heiress had thrown away all her striving and hard work, turning her back on an earl’s proposal just to wed some strange fellow with a threatening look and no reputation.
The long, bright hallway smelled heavenly, due to the overabundance of floral arrangements: salvia, phlox, and daylilies. All grown in her new, modern conservatory and her tidy garden, the largest on the street. As they passed through, the sound of scuffing shoes alerted Cressida to a mischievousinterloper. She looked up and caught sight of Henry, leaning over the railing, a doleful look upon his face.
She arched her brow.
With an exaggerated sigh, Henry fell back, making a great show of heading back to bed.
Cressida smiled to herself. Soon they’d no longer be able to contain the lad, so bursting with curiosity and excitement was he. More so than he’d ever been, in fact.
They passed through the wide-open doors to the cards room, and Cressida immediately spotted her husband’s sandy head of hair, his tall form that sat head and shoulders over the other players.
Now she understood Harmonia.
In retrospect, it had been quite easy to leave all that behind. What had been there to begin with? The company of vicious harpies like Mrs. William Brenchley? The same boring dances, the same old gossip, the same tired ideas and attitudes, the same cold and oppressive husbands?
Cressida broke away from Harmonia’s arm, gliding through the room as if all eyes were not upon her.
“Darling,” she cooed as she cleaved herself against Matthew, without a care in the world for rules and comportment. “What is the game?”
He slid an arm around her, pulling her closer as he placed a kiss upon her temple.
“Are you not greeting our guests?” he murmured.
“Why should I?” She lifted her chin. “Do we not pay our staff?”
He laughed in that low, gentle rumble that ignited a ripple of pleasure deep within her.
“The game,” sighed the aloof Mr. Palgrave, the bastard son of a duke who had his own experience in being viewed as an outsider by the aristocratic class, “is whist, if you must know, Lady Caplin.”
“Please,” Cressida said with a wave of the hand, “it’s Mrs. Collier now.”
She felt Matthew’s hand tighten on her waist. Suddenly she’d the urge to stand up, clap her hands, and throw every university student, artist, and upwardly mobile tradesperson out of her home. But she could wait.
For she’d waited years to know happiness like this.
She turned to look into Matthew’s eyes, so full of love and admiration.
